When September Ends
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Sure, Ginny's career might have ended and Amelia's walked out, but at least Eliot gets a break. Maybe he can even put the band back together... Then he wakes up. [Yuletide 2017 treat for elegantstupidity.]


Huge thanks to my tireless beta, kalypsobean.

* * *

Amelia calls Eliot from the airport.

"You're a smart guy," she says. "Savvy, on your toes, you'll find someplace to land. Don't let yourself get tied down with people who don't appreciate you."

And just like that, he's free. He can go home, he can put the band back together, he can start to live.

Has she spoken to the Padres, he wonders? Will they remember him? Will they care?

He glances at his phone again, hoping against hope there will be word from Ginny, but it's not like he'd be first to know in any event. Instead he texts his friends in their group chat— _turns out I might be coming home sooner than I think, lol,_ and settles on a _:(_ rather than searching for some more expressive emojis now that he's off the clock. Sleep follows shortly after.

* * *

When he wakes up, he checks his phone and finds there's no word back from anyone yet. Huh. He showers, gets ready for the day, and by the time he gets back there's a news alert flashing:

 _Sellout crowd expected, Baker to reach her innings limit_

He reads it again, uncomprehending, then stares. Then he reaches for the top menu, hands trembling on the sleek surface of the phone.

Friday, September 2. The Padres are about to face the Rockies. Again.

He'd have been able to come to terms with the world seeming later than it should; he can imagine having slept and _missed_ an entire day, his body unwilling to face the future and collapsing in defeat. But this? Baseball players are superstitious, but this is a whole 'nother level.

Just in case, Eliot boots up his computer and checks its clock, then a browser—the spam e-mails he'd mindlessly deleted the day before were gone, and Facebook reminds him it's still Jessica's birthday from middle school, the vacuous greetings from friends who'd gone their separate ways pouring in once again. Everything he can find suggests it's Friday once more. Nothing on the news about the loss, Ginny's injury, or anything to suggest that the game he so vividly remembers has already taken place.

Well, it would be too much to expect that he'd actually get a day off. He reaches for his phone, then hesitates. Who else remembers? Somehow the idea of calling Amelia is unappealing. And if Ginny isn't all right…

Eliot finally settles on Blip Sanders, who he figures can keep his cool as much as anyone. "Hello?" he asks.

"Hi," says Blip, seeming annoyed at the world more than Eliot. "What's going on?"

"Um, nothing in particular," Eliot feigns. "Is everything all right with you?"

"Well, I mean, September when you're out of contention," Blip exhales.

As long as he's here… "Right. Anyway, um, I heard Ginny is hitting her innings limit. That's...probably good! We want her to stay healthy, right?"

"Sure."

He really wishes he was a better liar, or as Amelia would probably have put it, "able to publicize the best interpretation of events in a time-oriented manner." "I got linked a study that says, er, night games can be really stressful for pitchers. I'll e-mail it to you when my computer isn't being a piece of garbage, I'm sure it'll mean more coming from you than Amelia or me."

"You're gonna want to get that computer looked at."

"Yeah, yeah. But, you know, it makes sense, right? Old-timers, before they had lights, threw a zillion innings."

Blip chuckles. "I'll see you at the ballpark, robo-cop."

Eliot laughs as he hangs up; that's a new one.

Ginny's phone goes to a machine. He ignores her and calls Amelia. "Hello?" she snaps. "I'm on my way to the stadium, can it wait?"

"Uh," Eliot says, because she doesn't sound like anyone who remembers the future either, "sure," and hangs up.

Of course she never gets back to him, and he can't find her at the stadium either. By then it wouldn't matter. Ginny's in the zone, and nothing he can say or do is going to shake her. He watches, borne along in helplessness, like the myriads of fans around him. Except they're afraid of shattering history by their speech, and he's silently urging the story to be rewritten.

Well, maybe there's no need for silence. "No-hitter," he whispers under his breath in the fourth, and then, "she's got a no-hitter going." Who is he to know how magic works? All he did was wake up.

The fan next to him glares. Great. The Rockies go down in order anyway.

He turns away before it happens, and leaves the stadium before anyone can ask him why. Self-centered, he knows, but still he feels like the eyes of the world might as well be on _him_.

Amelia calls him from the airport.

"Don't go," he says. "Ginny needs you. _I_ need you."

"You've never needed anyone," she snorts. "You've made that perfectly clear."

So he gets himself a drink, and sleep follows quickly.

* * *

Eliot wakes up. It's the second.

Just his luck, he figures. The universe threatens to ruin Ginny's career, holds the chance at a break from the stress over his head as if it was worth it, and then snaps even that away. _Ginny,_ he texts, _call me when you get the chance_.

Then he calls his band friends. "I don't know if this baseball thing is really working out for me," he confesses. "Maybe I'll come home after the season. Can't say how soon. I mean, we're not going to the playoffs, but...it's complicated. I miss you guys. Just thought I should say hi."

"You can't just leave!" Sangchul complains. "You're making it in the real world and making us all look like kids, you can't throw that away."

"It's not as fun as it sounds," says Eliot.

"Updating the Twitter account to make fun of opposing teams whenever there's a rain delay?" Tyler teases. "Sounds thrilling."

"It's San Diego," says Sangchul, "there's never a rain delay."

"There's a little bit of everything," says Eliot. _Including time travel._

Eventually Ginny returns his call. "What's up?" she asks.

"Uh, I heard you're hitting your innings limit soon?"

"Right."

"I just...want to make sure you're doing okay. You shouldn't, you know, have to be...the face of the franchise, and everything."

Ginny, presumably, rolls her eyes. "Not likely."

"I mean, people give me all kinds of grief, but we really are going to be contending soon. It shouldn't just be a 'show up to the stadium to see Ginny Baker pitch' arrangement."

"'We'? I think that's the most team spirit you've shown all year."

"It takes me a while to get enthusiastic. But listen, you don't need to play just because people are turning up, you know that, right?"

"Of course not," Ginny snaps. "I play because it's my turn in the starting rotation."

"Well, yeah. Of course. I just mean—"

"I don't need any more men in my life babying me."

"I'm not old enough to baby anyone, come on."

"Great," says Ginny, ending the call.

Sighing, Eliot decides to call Al Luongo instead. "Excuse me," he says, "how are you doing?"

"Fine," says Luongo, "but we've got a game to prepare for here."

"Of course," says Eliot. "I'll be quick. I recognize I've kind of been a nuisance, what with Ginsanity and all the hype, but I know how much the Padres mean to you. All twenty-five of them. You put the team first, and that's all anyone can ask for."

"Well, thanks."

"Don't back down. Uh—no matter what comes, I'm sure you know nobody's bigger than the team, right? Not Lawson, not Sanders, not even Ginny."

"Like you're the first person who's told me how to do my job?" Al pushes back.

"Of course not. Just never hurts to remind you that we're all in this together. Hopefully for many more seasons to come."

"I'll give you this, kid, you're more optimistic about my job security than most people in this park." He pauses. "Don't put that on your Twitter."

"All right, all right."

When he gets the call from high up, Luongo nods, replies quietly, and hangs up while Eliot paces up and down a flight of upper-deck stairs. Then the manager waves Ginny over from where she huddles in her jacket, but that time around she's the one who retorts with everything she has left in the tank, and more. Again, he folds between her small frame and the eyes of thousands.

When Amelia calls him from the airport, Eliot doesn't pick up.

* * *

Eliot gets to the stadium early enough to hang out outside Oscar Arguella's office; too early, in fact, and he does some laps of the upper floors before knocking on the GM's door. His assistant, Rhonda, is bemused.

"Baker's social media guy," he grins, "just wanted to thank Mr. Arguella for the great job he's been doing."

Rhonda laughs. "That's a new one."

"It's been a long year," says Eliot. _And a long day._ "We can all use a pick-me-up."

Oscar steps out of his inner office, looks at Eliot, and grins bemusedly as if casting about for his name. "Good to see you."

"It can't be easy handling all the stuff you deal with," Eliot acknowledges. "The Duarte signing, the free agency deadline, now the waiver stuff with the Cubs..."

"What's this about?" Oscar glares.

"I just hear rumors," he shrugs, "and I figure you don't get enough credit for keeping your spine through it all. You're a tough guy, can't I say thanks?"

"Season's not over yet."

"You're telling me. All I'm saying is, stand up for yourself. Hold your ground when you make a call, you know? I trust your instincts."

Oscar narrows his eyes. "You sure this isn't about Copeland again?"

"No! No, uh, just looking forward."

"Thanks for the insight," says Rhonda. Eliot takes that as his cue to back away.

He watches as Al Luongo answers the dugout phone, as he listens to whatever message from on high urges Ginny to back down before it's too late. He can't make out what string of choice words Al replies with, but coming from a crusty baseball lifer, he can hazard a few guesses. Ginny takes the mound in the eighth.

Eliot stays up till midnight, the brightness of his phone overwhelming him as he clicks on it every few minutes to refresh against the darkness. At midnight, it rolls over, from 11:59 on Friday evening...to 12:00 am on Friday morning.

Yawning, he mutes it and thinks about going to bed, then reconsiders. He retraces the series of posts he'd analyzed to track down Noah Casey, then rereads his texts from Ginny. It takes him a while to extract Casey's number, which should really be encrypted better, but not for nothing is Eliot a stalker to be reckoned with when he puts his mind to it.

 _Hi Noah,_ he sends fifteen minutes later _, this is Blip Sanders. Hope everything is going well ;) Sounds like Ginny has been scratched tomorrow, Luongo wants Hosokawa to start and get experience. One of the 40-man callups._

 _39 man? Lol_

 _Anyway, this is the first we've heard so feel free to sleep in :p Luongo says sorry for the late decision._

What's the worst that can happen, he figures? Even if it all blows up, it's not like there'll be repercussions for anyone else.

* * *

Amelia calls him around lunchtime.

"Hey!" he enthuses. "It is really good to hear from you. Listen, could you tell Ginny—"

"Tell Ginny what?" she retorts, in a sharp, too-high tone.

"That she, uh, really needs to preserve her contract value for the future and not overextend herself in any particular game, all that good stuff."

"And what are you going to tell her yourself?"

"That I agree with your brilliant insight," Eliot says, "as always."

"And that you're _dreadfully apologetic_ for lying to her about the schedule and attempting to manipulate her personal life?"

"That sounds terrible," Eliot says coolly. "Did I do that?"

"She recognized your number as having sent—messages—with misinformation about her playing schedule, blaming a third party. This is completely unacceptable."

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about," Eliot protests. "You can search my phone, I'd be happy to let you see, I didn't send anything." He can clear it deeper than someone like Amelia could search.

"Don't try to wriggle your way out of this. I don't want to see you anywhere near the ballpark until you've made things right."

Which is plenty more encouragement for him to show up there. Disappointingly, his glimpses of the dugout don't let him in on much. Short of Al reaching for the phone, all he can tell is that Sanders is there, and so is Ginny, taking frenetic warm-up tosses. Zillions of dollars to his name, and Casey doesn't even know how to sleep in?

Fuming, Eliot goes through and starts deleting any record of his messages, just in case. It feels futile, knowing that he'll probably wake up and have every physical imprint of this day purged yet again, but maybe he'll go look for Amelia out of spite. Before he can do that, though, he glances up and it's the third inning. The Rockies still don't have any hits yet, but Ginny looks rattled, and has walked two with nobody out. Is this the way it always goes? Why hasn't he memorized the stupid game?

Then the ball is well hit, deep to center field. Sanders is backpedaling, perhaps desperate to clear his name. He's tracking the ball with his eyes, not looking behind him, the warning track does not warn—

and Sanders hits the wall, going down hard. A gasp runs through the crowd like the wave, as people are drawn to and turn away from his limp body in equal measure. Two runs score for the Rockies before the left fielder comes up with the ball and holds the batter at second.

The trainer runs out to the track, and a round of cursory applause follows when Sanders stirs and hobbles off the field under his own power. Eliot stays quiet. Sanders might expect to carry the injury for days and weeks, but Eliot is pretty sure he won't, and he isn't sure which is a worse he feels it's not enough to transfer agony from one Padre to another, if he's even right that it's up to him to find a way out of this stupid game. By the time they pull Ginny in the sixth, it's 4-1.

If he had more time? To get some phone that would be harder to trace, figure out how to get into a tech mogul's e-mails? But Ginny will already be with Casey when the new day breaks, and Eliot doesn't want to tempt fate any further.

Part of him wants to text Sanders and apologize. But it'll all be forgotten anyway, so what's the point?

* * *

"What're you calling us for?" Tyler asks. "It's eight in the morning."

"Some of us have real jobs," says Eliot. "Had. I don't know. Anyway, I'm, uh, blowing off work today, thought I'd come down and see you guys."

"And you just thought to tell us this now?" asks Sangchul.

"I mean, I have to beat traffic, right?"

"You should stay here, man," Sangchul says. "San Diego is screwing you up."

"Tell me about it," says Eliot, and jumps in the car.

Traffic is terrible, and he finds he doesn't care. The spectrum of radio stations between San Diego and Los Angeles is full of up-tempo music that fades into static as he stalls, and thoughts of the game dissipate behind him.

There isn't time to pick up an instrument and start rocking out, of course. He didn't expect that. For the day it's enough to listen, fend off too many questions about what possessed him to come down on the spur of the moment, and try his best to keep up with the slew of what Tyler optimistically presents as "groupies."

"I've missed you," Eliot admits, and it's true.

"It's not that far," says Sangchul, "can't you come up on road games?"

"Yeah," he says. "Just—little fires to put out all the time. You know."

The others glance at each other and it strikes him that they probably do not know. How was he to have known what the job would entail, even _before_ the time travel?

"You guys can come down south too," he points out, and bites his tongue before pointing out that their schedules are perhaps less full than his.

"Can you get us box seats?" Tyler asks.

"Only if we reblog a post that goes viral," says Sangchul.

"Huh, is that all?" says Tyler.

"Don't even start, you can't even get people to like your gig updates."

Eliot lets their words drift over him like the chorus of an earworm. Perhaps they are only part of his past now, but in a nightmare defined by repetition, it's somehow a relief to be part of something pleasantly familiar.

* * *

"Do you ever feel like you're in a Bill Murray movie?" Eliot asks the fan next to him.

She puts down her nachos. "Who's Bill Murray?"

"Never mind."

"Is he the guy who sings during the stretch for the Cubs?"

"I'm just here for Baker," Eliot says, before realizing that might be taken the wrong way. "Can't get enough of those screwballs."

"Oh," says his neighbor, giving a knowing shush and returning to her nachos.

* * *

During warm-ups everyone is irritatingly close together, instead of leaving Ginny gulfs of space like they will in a few innings. Eliot finds it impossible to get Mike Lawson alone; he's always dispensing advice to Duarte or shooting the breeze with Sanders or even murmuring reassurances to Ginny about her shutdown, which she, of course, ignores.

Finally Eliot figures what the heck, it's not like any of it is going to matter, and maybe he'll be able to get a word in edgewise with Ginny too. "Lawson," he nods. "Sorry for the short notice, but the scoreboard guys could use some more quotes for the between-innings games. And of course they're sending me because I look like I wear more hats around here than the mannequins."

"Always Lawson?" Ginny teases. "No love for Duarte or anyone?"

"If Duarte gets to speak his mind about anything on one of those scoreboard games, I'm not sure Skip will be all that pleased," Lawson laughs. "What's the word?"

"What do you do when you need to—make a change? Break out of a slump, turn things around?"

Lawson stares at him like he's a little kid, which under the circumstances isn't entirely unreasonable. "You think I'm like Sanders with a lucky shirt or something? None of this comes easy. Look, I could give you some cliche about how even the best fail more than they succeed, but that only applies to us batters." He grins sarcastically at Ginny. "It takes a lot of pain, a lot of endurance, before you get through."

 _A lot of pain_. It had been late in the season anyway, and who was to say that Ginny couldn't have recovered from her injury? Except for the fact that Eliot kept waking up, day after day. "Uh, thanks," he says, typing at his phone as if to record the message. "And what about you, Ginny?"

"I play once every five days," she says. "Even when I feel like I'm having a bad stretch, and just tuning up my mechanics in between, the media is going to have plenty to focus on in all those other games in between. Like those batters who fail seven out of ten times. And you know, it's not what I'd like to focus on, but some people would say I've been making a change with every level I've succeeded at, just by being here."

Eliot blinks. "I see. Well, uh, thank you, I'll let you get back to it."

"That was awful quote fodder," he hears Mike say as he walks away, "neither of us are getting into that scoreboard quote game."

He's right, of course, though not for the reason he has in mind.

When Ginny falls, Eliot tries to look anywhere but her. At Sanders, miraculously reconciled to her once again, numb in shock. At Al in the dugout, trying to keep his cool even though the cameras are far from him, watching one of his proteges get hurt. And at Lawson behind the plate, replaying the signs in his head, as lost as all the fans, asking _what if_. Except they're not the ones who'll be called upon to answer.

* * *

Eliot wakes up. Then he starts searching for Blip Sanders' address.

It takes a little effort, but not for nothing has he honed his stalking skills, and within ten minutes he's driving over to the Sanders home.

Blip's wife—Evie?—answers the door. "Hello?" she squints.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says. "I'm Eliot, I work for Amelia. I was wondering if I could speak to Blip?"

"What's going on?" Evie asks.

"Nothing's wrong! We just had some questions about an upcoming promotion."

She shakes her head. "Glad to know he's sticking around. Blip! Special delivery!"

Blip emerges a few moments later. "Morning!"

"Heya," says Eliot. "Don't mean to pry, but a little birdie tells me that some of your All-Star performance this year can be chalked up to a lucky t-shirt. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you have it today? It's Ginny's last game of the year, you know; we need all the help we can get."

"Oh, for goodness' _sakes_ ," Evelyn says, turning around and stamping up the stairs.

"Wouldn't leave home without it," Blip says soberly.

"Great. Wonderful." So much for that theory.

"Is this for social media?"

"Um...sort of," he says, hoping Blip will take the hint.

No such luck. "How'd you get in charge of that?"

"A question I find myself asking often," he bluffs.

Apparently he's been stuck with so many stupid jobs that Blip is willing to roll with it. "You'd better mention that Evie is the reason the luck has stayed with me these many seasons. Through fades and shreds, if you know what I mean. I wouldn't have any kind of magic without her." He smiles, shaking his head.

"Will do," says Eliot. "Is everything all right?"

Blip sighs. "She was always there for me when I tried to make the cut. I don't know how to be there for her."

"It sounds like you're trying."

"I'm always trying. That's not enough to see what she needs."

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"When I can. When she gets like this?" Blip shrugs. "It isn't easy."

"I understand."

"You're Amelia's assistant, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Sometimes I feel like Evie can open up to _her_ more than me. I'm glad you get along with her and all; I just don't have the knack for all that business stuff."

"Evelyn and Amelia?" Eliot echoes. "What do they talk about?"

"Business. This restaurant Evelyn wants to open. Who she should be trusting."

"Trusting? Is _Amelia_ coming between the two of you?"

Blip laughs, seeming more at ease than Eliot's seen him in...well, many days. "No. Not directly."

"All right. Well, I should go, but—thanks for the quote, we really do appreciate it. And Evelyn, too. You keep that shirt with you, now."

Blip nods, and Eliot takes off before he can ask too many more questions.

He calls Amelia from his car. "Hi," he says, "we need to talk."

"Can it wait?" she asks. "I'm on the road."

"Not really," he says. "I'll meet you wherever." She hesitates, and he rushes, "It's about Evelyn Sanders and her restaurant."

"Okay," says Amelia, and he can almost hear her eyebrows arc.

"What's the deal?"

"What's the _deal_? There is no deal. There is no restaurant, as far as I know."

"Oh. Okay? Then what's all the discussion about?"

"What discussion?"

"The discussion," Eliot says, "that you and Evelyn have been having, about the restaurant that may or may not exist."

"Evelyn's a talented businesswoman. With Ginny Baker's image and fame, a franchise could get off to a strong start—before flaming out. All I want is for Evelyn to think wisely before she invests in a failing venture."

"Evelyn seems real smart, yeah," says Eliot, "but I don't think she would lean on anyone's fame to get started—not Blip, not Ginny."

"Would that every entrepreneur was so prudent."

"Sorry," he says, "you lost me."

Amelia sighs. "Ginny's brother Will is not so financially wise as Evelyn, and is trying to exploit Ginny to clear his own debts. I've made it clear with him he needs to make things right, but he's the one who came up with this ridiculous idea in the first place."

"Oh," says Eliot. Something tells him Amelia's idea of making things right could take a while even by his "nothing ever stays done no matter how long I try" standards. "Thanks. I'm a little slow on the uptake, you know how it is."

He hangs up on her and then starts zigzagging over to Ginny's place. There's no rush, in some sense—he can just do this all tomorrow—but he's pleasantly surprised to find an unfamiliar car pulling in moments after him.

Eliot climbs out and approaches the stranger. The man's dark eyes are weighted down, like Ginny's, as if he's tired of competing for attention. Except where Ginny had fought her way to glory, he had been forgotten as the years and failures wore on him. "You the new boyfriend?" he asks.

Eliot retrains himself from laughter. "Just a friend. You must be Will?" Will nods skeptically, and he rushes on, "I'm Eliot. Ginny talks a lot about you."

"About me, huh?" He doesn't seem very settled by this.

"Growing up and all. Just how nice it was to have someone to know her as a person. Not just the ballplayer."

Will shrugs. "What's family for?"

"It can't have been easy. Being known as 'Ginny Baker's brother'?"

He kicks at the asphalt. "Back home they don't know me as much these days."

"Back home," Eliot whispers, "I tried to start a rock band. Me and every other nobody."

"And? What happened?"

"It was horrible," Eliot admits. "Nothing original, nothing creative, lots of noise."

"Waste of time?"

"You know what? I had a lot of fun. Working with my friends, spending time together, trying to do what I thought I loved. It turned out I was wrong; moved down here, got a—a job." Probably not best to go into details. "Turns out it wasn't necessarily what I loved either. But there's still lots of time for me to figure it out."

"Doesn't change what's happened."

"No," says Eliot. "But I can change what comes next."

It's never felt like more of a lie. Will seems to take to it anyway. "Right. Uh, I was just going to stop in on Ginny."

"Same here," says Eliot. "If you don't mind me intruding?"

"No! No, uh, go ahead."

They ring the doorbell together, and while Eliot assumes Ginny is more surprised to see Will there, he's not actually sure. "Uh...come in," she finally says, after she's done a double-take at both of them.

They sit down in her kitchen and glance at each other, blurting out, "So, you first." Eliot stays quiet—he doesn't exactly have a good introduction now that Will is actually _there_ —and it pays off, with Will seeming to ignore him and turning to Ginny.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Gin, I'm sorry."

"What?" she says. "What's wrong?"

"I..." He pauses, stiffens, carries on. "I took money from the restaurant fund. The coffee shop was going into debt, I got in—trouble. I thought I could cover it and pay you back later. That's all squared away now, the coffee stuff, but I still owe you."

Ginny closes her eyes. "You should have asked. I'd have been happy to help you."

"I can go," Eliot rushes.

"Hold on," she says, and Will doesn't protest.

"There's more," says Will. "Uh, Amelia made me come here."

Eliot tries not to react. "Amelia?" Ginny echoes, tension rising inside her.

"Yeah. I didn't just—realize I should tell you. She heard from Evelyn and nagged me about it."

Has this happened every time? How does Ginny manage to tune it all out on the mound? "You can't just open a restaurant with my name on it," she says. "That's not going to help. You have to be your own person."

"I want to earn that money back. You deserve it, I need to settle my scores."

"Amelia's making sure I don't need to worry about the money." Ginny rolls her eyes. "I'm worried about you. You need to get out of my shadow, whether that's here, or at home, or, I don't know, hawking deep-dish pizza in Chicago."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"So you'll let Evelyn Sanders use your name, but not me? I'm a Baker too."

"Evelyn—if that's a risk she wants to take, we'll work it out one step at a time. You find some way to make that name yours, then we'll see." Will still looks downcast, and Ginny adds on, "Come to the game today. It's my last start, afterwards I'll be as bored as anyone else. We're not going to the playoffs. We can talk then, yeah?"

Will brightens. "I'd like that."

"And I'm sorry Amelia got in your face about it. I'll tell her to—stay out of family stuff."

"I'm sorry too," Eliot says. "Let me handle her."

Ginny rounds on him as if remembering he's there. "You knew about this?"

"No," he says, "not until just now, anyway. But you're right, she shouldn't have gotten in the way. You—" he breaks off.

"You have a game to play," Will finishes before Eliot can hear himself think.

Is that it? Should he be encouraging Ginny to get into a sparring match with Amelia, distract her, throw her off? But no, he tells himself, whatever she said to Amelia the first time was enough to drive her away, while still keeping Ginny as unflappable as ever. He'll have to handle Amelia himself.

"Thanks," says Ginny.

And then he's off to the stadium, texting Amelia and hurriedly asking her to meet him. He's not too concerned about texting and driving—what happens if he crashes? it'll be fixed the next day, right?—but arrives without incident.

"What now?" Amelia asks.

"Well," Eliot begins, "Ginny's off warming up."

"That...is to be expected," says Amelia, "she is the starting pitcher."

"She is," says Eliot, "and she likes her routine. Which is why it might not have been the best idea to go unsettle her by sending her brother over to be all remorseful."

"As opposed to what?" Amelia asks. "Have him keep lying to her? Stealing from her?"

"I think she finds it hard to trust you. Especially when her family is involved, and—I'd hate to see all you've done for her go to waste."

"What do you know? You'd be nothing without me," _either_ , Eliot hears the unspoken frustration, "but another rocker with delusions of grandeur."

Great. Maybe he'll just have to keep her focus on him rather than the Bakers. "You're right. I wouldn't be. I'd be back in LA, with my friends, and you know what? I'd probably be a whole lot happier."

"Well, guess what. Ginny's season is just about over, so you can head right back there."

"Sounds great," Eliot says, and storms off.

He sneaks by the treadmills later, crouched low so they can't see him through the windows, he notices Amelia and Ginny discussing things in what appears to be a civil tone.

"Are you okay?" asks a small voice behind him.

"What?" He turns around, still squatting. Daniella Arguella is staring at him with obvious doubt. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You playing hide-and-seek?"

"No. Uh, just...about to watch the game," he says. "C'mon, let's go find your dad."

Oscar is glad to have Daniella returned to him from her pregame excursions, and Eliot heads for what he now thinks of as "his" seat, scanning the stands around him on the off chance Will is there. He isn't nearby, but then again, it's a sellout.

The Rockies step up to the plate in the top of the first, and Eliot can only guess at what torrent of emotions are battling for control of Ginny. She leans in, gets the sign from Lawson, works the count to one and two.

The next pitch drills the leadoff batter on the knee.

Immediately, the Rockies' manager is on the top step, angry, but the umpire fends him off with a that was an obvious case of terrible aim. There's no bad blood between the two teams, at least not yet, and all it's gotten them is the leadoff runner aboard.

Searching for control, Ginny misses far outside. One-and-oh, two-and-oh. Lawson trots out to the mound to calm her down, but doesn't seem to be getting in much of the conversation. She says something to him—coordinating signs?—and he retreats.

The next pitch is laced over the shortstop's head. First and third with nobody out.

The crowd grows restless. Eliot is silent.

And then...a harmless grounder to second. 4-6-3, a double play, even as the Rockies take the lead. The cleanup hitter skies to Sanders, who settles under it for the third out.

The Padres go down in order in the bottom half, and in the second, Ginny is in command again. A foulout to left, a backwards K, and a grounder to first unassisted quickly dispose of the Rockies. The Padres lead off with a hit in the second, although they strand him, and after the rough start, it's suddenly become a defensive battle.

In the third they tie it up, a single from Salvamini scoring the runner from second. Ginny walks the Rockies' right fielder in the fourth, but spears a liner back to the mound to get out of it. In the sixth, the Padres finally go ahead, with a two-run double off the left-field wall. And in the seventh, Ginny's still cruising: a swinging strikeout and a pop foul.

Only then does she give up a hard single to center, and Eliot realizes it's just her second hit of the day. Free from the weight of history, weighed down by everything else on her mind, she's still pitched a gem. Al paces out to the mound, and she leaves to a wave of applause, Eliot's claps not least among them.

* * *

He wakes up to a voicemail from Amelia.

"Eliot, I recognize I lost my cool with you. I don't blame you if you've already struck out for somewhere new, but if you're still around and would like to stay in business, well, Baker seems to be making quite a name for herself with that performance and I'm sure there's a lot to do. Let me know."

He checks the date. Saturday the third. The web shows pictures of the previous game; not historic, but to him as remarkable as they come.

 _I'd like that,_ he texts _, but I think I'm spending the postseason with my friends. Losers or not, I'm sure they can learn how to appreciate a pennant race._


End file.
